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OMG Facebook’s become  so unbelievably powerful!!

I realized today that my passport was missing, so I started looking for it all over the place.  After an hour, I realized I needed to think of some ways to help myself somehow. So I stopped for a minute… And the first thing that came to my mind was basically… “updating my Facebook status should help!”

allergies

I have my blog in quite a similar way like I have my allergy medicine. (I’ve never liked adding ‘my’ to everything I possess or am about to consume but it happens to everyone.) It’s just there and I know that “when worse comes to worst” I can always “turn to it”. It doesn’t necessarily help but at least I know that “I did everything I could.”

I started writing my blog in English when I wanted to believe that I had started living in English: reading articles on migration in English, laughing, bullshitting, crying and toasting my bread in English. Deep inside though, I was secretly hoping that my boyfriend to-be would read my blog and be impressed by “how  creative I am” and how – unlike in spoken situations  – I don’t confuse ‘fizzy’ with ‘fuzzy’ in the context of English cider.

He was English but is an ‘ex’ now, and all I can say is that the best thing about having an English boyfriend is that it puts your childhood theory into practice. You can finally use all the words that you used to hear when listening to foreign bands on the radio. Like baby or I love you.  And of course the magic rhyme that the English language is lucky to have. Together-forever. As I child, you kind of thought they were words that “only musicians use”. With an English boyfriend though, they do for a tiny moment indeed exist.

When they cease to exist, the song turns into some poorly pirated copy, with no traces of authenticity and no rhyme. It feels fake and hollow listening to it but I know this feeling – just like my allergy –  will have to go away soon.

In September, when wormwood stops blossoming.

Yeah yeah yeah

I used to constantly talk about the overly polite British. And then, like rain on the wedding day, someone who had been swearing love for months didn’t manage to stand up when saying goodbye forever.

Don’t mix “drama” with “culture” , my rationality says. It’s all one and the same thing now, I say, and “I love tea” badges go straight into the bin.

How cultural, I think.

Tribute to Skype

Watch some Gaelic football, my friend from Wales says. Not gonna happen, I say. I thought women like to watch how men kick each other, he says. There are three periods in the history of evolution that I don’t really get, I repeat: 1) when a dog was domesticated; 2) when fireworks were invented; 3) when football was started to be played. Dogs were good for hunting; fireworks were a Chinese invention for scaring Mongol horses; football has always been a reason for a husband not to talk to his wife, he explains.

I’d like to marry one day, I suddenly remember a thought I had tentatively formulated in the past. The first thing I knew back then was my husband wouldn’t be one of those who break windows for basketball. He’d break them for football instead cause he’d be English, I thought. Or Scottish if that doesn’t work. OK you got it - Irish if worse comes to worse. I’d always make him dinner. He’d hate cepelinai cause apart from a few Lithuanians and other Balts (like there are so many left), nobody does. One or two Americans maybe. I don’t like cepelinai either, so I’d make them to express my anger. When I’d want to remind my husband that he’s got to learn Lithuanian. He’s got to respect my heritage and for chrissakes,  it’s high time we moved to Lithuanian, cause that’s where all of my relatives live. And a few friends who haven’t betrayed the motherland yet. Calm down, darling, he’d say. I would immediately become famous in a poor country, but fame’s not gonna bring me happiness. Do I not bring you happinness?, I’d furiously ask. Oh come off it, he’d say and we’d stay in London.  Greetings from East Ham, a Lithuanian ghetto, I’d be writing to you. Visit me and we’ll go for a cup of coffee in Soho. Kisses, Jenny.

Cabarete

I’ll bring you the same souvenir box to the beach every day. I’ll bring you papayas, pineapples and coconuts. I’ll keep showing you the pictures of my children until you let me braid your hair. I’ll become your best friend for a minute if you buy a bracelet I told you was made of larimar but is not.  I’ll hate you and swear at you if you manage to buy a necklace from me for cost price but I’ll be your friend tomorrow again cause you might buy another one for more. I’ll tell you only my cigars are real. Others sell shit. I’ll keep calling you my friend and telling you how I go to church in Puerto Plata until you decide to offer some clothes for my children. I’ll be sincerely grateful and call you my real friend but just before we say goodbye I’ll ask if you by any chance don’t have another hundred note in your pocket.

If I’m from a neighbouring village, I’ll tell you that only locals drink, cheat and use the services offered by prostitues. I’ll tell you about Raymond, the crazy guy who organizes fishing trips and never shows up to pick people up. I’ll tell you I’m not the same. I am the only one here who sells silver.

I’ll show you which beach chairs belong to your hotel though it’s the first thing you found out upon your arrival. I won’t make you sit on somebody’s lap when the 39th passenger gets on my twenty-seat guagua cause I expect you to pay twice for the ticket. I’ll call you Miss England regardless of where you come from so you buy my newspaper.  I’ll beg you to come to my shop just to be polite, though I know you won’t get out without a purchase.

If I work at the reception of the hotel, I’ll tell you you can keep your suitcase in the foyer past check-out time in such a manner that you end up believing I’m doing a favour. I’ll tell you about free horseback riding and kitesurfing. I’ll tell you I can’t believe you’ll have to leave my country (if you’ve given me tips). I’ll promise you it will be sunny tomorrow, though the last time I watched a weather forecast was last year.

If I’m a frequent tourist from Germany, I’ll establish a travel company called Freddie Tours and tell you it’s the only local company with insurance. I’ll lie to you that whale watching is on discount cause it’s the last weekend when whales come out. I’ll hire my dodgy-looking Swiss friend who’ll sit in my office and tell every passer by “hey I’m from Switzerland, I went whale watching with them twice and it was really good.” You’ll probably choose my company cause Germans are known for reliability and we’ll have made a great deal.

I’ll hire a guide who only gives names of villages you pass without any further comment. He’ll forget the real name of “Bacardi Island” but will become very talkative when it comes to reminding travellers to leave tips.

I’ll take you to Samana where all whale trips start. I will have booked the smallest boat available without previously letting you know that all electronic equipment should stay in your hotel. I’ll put you in a boat with nine more naive Germans, Americans and Dutchmen, as well as  a man at the wheel who barely speaks any language including his own. You’ll go far into the sea till you forget how the coast looks like. Waves will be huge as hell and you’ll suddenly discover that you do have sea sickness afterall. Salty water will keep splashing all over the place after you have long said goodbye to your camera. When you can’t open your eyes anymore, the man at the wheel will stop and point in the distance where the whale has finally shown two centimetres of his back.

When you’re back in Cabarete, I’ll come with my souvenir box and remind you that you have promised to have a look, though I know to say the magic word later was the only way you could get rid of me. I’ll tell you I know you came here to relax and enjoy the sun but life is not that easy. I’ll give you free cigars and show you around cause I assume you’re richer than me. I’ll wave at you and offer to jump on my motorbike cause I know thanks is not gonna be enough. I’ll fill your water cup up after every single sip of yours in the restaurant cause I know you might appreciate it. I’ll sing songs and teach you merengue; I’ll bring you candy coconuts cause you’re a bloody tourist and that’s all I need you to be.

The Manual on the Preparations for Discovering the Land of Lithuania

(dedicated to F. who is coming to visit)

BEFORE THE FLIGHT (packing tips)

There are certain things that cannot be found in one or another country (due to different markets and stuff) but as people travel, they discover things in other countries that they would want their markets to offer, too. However, as this is not always the case, there are certain things that I need from Britain, and want to use you as a tool to get them:

 • Thai Curry Paste (Red). Can be found at Tesco’s on High St. (the one we bought the wig at). You’ll see it on the shelf that has different sauces. Should say “Original Thai Curry Paste” on the label (NOT the ‘Pataks’ brand). Costs £2.05 if my memory serves me right;

• Maltesers. Comes in different shapes and sizes, so just grab whichever is available;

• Stowford Press. A can will do (hopefully they are available in cans, if not there’re always bottles). Don’t repeat my mistakes trying to find it in London;

• Everything you can ever find about immigration into the UK after 2004 (for my thesis). Keep an eye on it constantly, please. Maybe one day you’ll decide to visit your mum at work, and then you just type in the word “immigration” into the library’s online catalogue and copy whatever is relevant. I will never ever forget this sacrifice should you get round to actually doing it.

 • Don’t forget your phrase book so you can surprise me again with your interwar Lithuanian.

 

AT THE AIRPORT + ON THE PLANE 

 

pic from transp.lt

There are things that can only be experienced on the route UK-Lithuania or UK-Poland, so please prepare for those psychologically:

• If people at the check-in are hyper-friendly to you, don’t be surprised: you might be the first passenger on this flight to speak English;

 • If you see that you only have one suitcase while all others around you are paying for extra luggage, don’t get scared – they might have bought every second item from PRIMARK and are now transporting them home;

• If you hear songs in a language similar to Russian being played on the plane, keep in mind that it is Russian. Lithuanians are probably listening to the Russian Radio after the announcement just said “switch off all your electronic equipment”;

• If you don’t understand the pilot when he is murmuring his standard speech, don’t worry. Normally you can’t understand him when he does this bit in Lithuanian either. Basically he’s just saying that you will now fly through Amsterdam, then Berlin and Poland;

• If they don’t even bring you a glass of water for free, don’t make much fuss about it. That’s Lithuanian Airlines. If they do, however, let me know and I will apologize for my ignorance;

• Don’t be surprised if you’re the last one to unfasten your seat-belt before getting off the plane. Everybody else will have done it long before the seat-belt sign is off. That’s how excited they are to be home!

• If you say “hello” to the airport official who is checking your passport and they don’t show any reaction, don’t be surprised: you got off in the right country.

UPON ARRIVAL

• Don’t try and excuse your general laziness and tiredness by jetlag – time difference is only two hours;

• Don’t be afraid of my parents and please “don’t feel uncomfortable” around them. Give them a box of Maltesers and they will be more than happy;

• My dad used to speak very good English 20 years ago but doesn’t really realize that it’s gotten a bit worse. Please try not to ruin his beliefs. My mum is a German interpreter/translator/teacher, so she strongly believes that all words in German and English have the same root. When she asks you a question in a German grammatical construction or attaches some English ending to a German word, just pretend it is all fine and ask me if you really didn’t understand something. My sister has just graduated from high school and done her A levels, so her English is good but if she doesn’t know the difference between “fizzy” and “fuzzy” try not to laugh;

• Don’t be shy, always say “sorry” and “thanks” (even when it’s not needed) and thus confirm our stereotypes about the English;

• When you see our cat, start stroking it immediately, so my mum can say: “oh the British have always preferred pets to people”;

• When my mum starts saying all these embarrassing things about me, just calmly nod your head and say: “Nobody is perfect, we the British know that by now.”

• Don’t be afraid to share your impressions about things you find “a bit weird” on the streets and all over the place.

Home

After fifteen hours on Polish roads, I am finally home (if you think mentioning roads is boring, you’ve obviously never seen Polish roads). They say “home is where your heart is”, but I am pretty sure my heart is somewhere between the lungs, enclosed in the pericardium or whatever they call it. So I get confused.

My country welcomes me by giving this long forgotten allergy to absinthium right after we cross some symbolic booth, which would be called a border control post if it was last summer. Thanks to Mr Schengen, my passport can stay in the trunk together with the material for unfinished essays.

It’s six in the morning and you can easily tell that the guy in ‘Lukoil’ gas station does not get bonus depending on how nice he is to customers. He takes money through a little window and explains that the toilet is in the forest. I’m happy I’m not a tourist from abroad and I will not have to keep this story on my mind before I spill it on international travel blogs.

It’s foggy and it looks like cows are sleeping on big puffy clouds. It’s only now that one realizes that orange sun in many paintings isn’t just a kitschy trick of landscape painters.

I keep looking at the pictures that Frau Fritsche normally gives to those who leave the building, and I try to keep cool. All of these slogan-type of truths keep running through my mind. You’ll come next year. I’ll come next year. The world has become very small. I’ll send you pictures. I’ll write letters. I’ll be friends with you on facebook. On LinkedIn. And not only those and Myspace. I will follow you on Twitter. I will want to be your friend on Pounce. I will be your buddy on Flickr and I will want to subscribe to your channel on YouTube. It’s easy these days, you’ll see…

I don’t want universal truths anymore. I want my truths. I want you to keep singing arias from American musicals to me everyday. I want you to call me at 2 a.m. and tell me a story about the professor who stayed in the room with broken radiators when it was -10 outside, and refused to leave because of certain affinity with the student from his native country. I want you to keep trying to prove me that ‘some’ implies one or more even though now I know that it really does (literal translation of ‘some’ into Lithuanian prevented me from believing in it before). I want you to make chicken curry and tell me about your dream in which a chicken almost pecked a hole in your head. I want you to have coffee with me every Sunday. Go far a walk to the park of Schloss Charlottenburg, where ladies do pirouettes when smiling for cameras (influence of the Schloss?). I want you to have two ‘Cosmopolitans’ instead of one with me in ‘Zeitlos’ and go see Tenesee Williams at the English Theatre afterwards. I want you to shout ‘Enemy’ every time I bump into you in the corridor. I want you to laugh with me at ‘banausentum’. I want you to run through the forest with Turks to see the game on a big screen at Siegesäule after gates had been closed. I want you to help me create headlines for the website. I want to take a picture of you being interviewed by ‘RTL’. I want you to dance with a chicken again. I want to invent songs with you. I want to have tea with you every night before going to bed. I want to kiss on the roof…

And they say it’s always easier for those who leave rather than those who stay. Ironic. Like r-a-a-a-in on a wedding day. It’s like seeing signs of restaurants every two kilometers after you hadn’t been able to hold your hunger and eaten at McDonald’s. It’s like going to Wrocław and finding out that it’s more German than most cities of Germany itself (especially Berlin). It’s like a woman from the house administration who becomes nicer to you after she feels the smell of ‘Domestos’ coming from your bathroom but then sees dust on the coffee machine…

There’s a big hammock hanging in the apple trees. There’s Murakami, waiting to be read. There are cold empty churches that you can sneak into when the sun becomes too intense. There are friends who want long talks and canoeing…

I want to tell them I can’t, not yet, my heart is still not here, but then I remember it is actually in the pericardium, between the lungs, and I am pretty sure my biology teacher from primary school would confirm that. I only need somebody to confirm that as long as my heart is there in between the lungs or some other inner organs, it travels everywhere with me.

Vanity Fair

The last time I experienced ”uncomfortable silence” was three years ago. Somebody had been talking to me for three minutes with this low scary voice before I realized it was a guy from my primary school. I had never really spoken to him before, apart from pulling each other’s hair or taking part in these water wars between boys and girls in grade 3. Plus his voice hadn’t gone through mutation at that time so there was no way I could actually recognize it now.

We talked about some of the classmates from the primary school but eventually realized we only remembered the names of like seven of them, let alone last names. After we had gone through “the list”, I stopped talking for a bit and tried to decide which bus to take next. My classmate decided to deal with the “uncomfortable silence” and said:

“My hamster was ill last week.”

I didn’t know whether I was supposed to be sad about the illnesss, or happy that he actually had a hamster. That he loves nature, animals and is this “normal person”, who will eventually live in this neighbourhood where children build sand castles in the yard and dads say “Hello honey” to their moms when they get back from work.

I felt similarly confused about what to say everytime I would go to ‘Safeway’ in Portland and have all of the cashiers comment on my purchases and talk about their lives for hours as if they suspected I was a secret shopper and they needed to be extra nice to me. I got rid of the idea of being taken for a secret shopper though after this one cashier girl shitted about her boss for like ten minutes. I didn’t say anything and I didn’t make the “list of scenarios of how I could have responded” ever after.

Then, of course, a few instances in elevators, when you have to say “hello” after a person enters and then have to deal with a few minutes silence, performing some stupid reflex actions like looking at the mirror or checking your phone (which you had just switched off), before you can finally say ‘Tschüss’.

And then yesterday. Somebody stopped me in the street close to the house I now live in and asked if I knew where some pizzeria was. I didn’t. But instead of admitting that, I looked at the person, started pointing at all four directions and said: “Maybe there, there or there.”

He looked at me trying to hold the laughter and I felt it was about the right time to tell him something about hamsters.

There were no hamsters but, before I managed to say anything else, I saw this Berliner bear who had painted his every second tooth brown, so he could look even more scary laughing at me next time I am in a situation like that.

Berlin and football

Cafes in Prenzlauer Berg stopped extending happy hour for cocktails in case of overtime.

Streets recovered from the black-red-yellow spot virus, which only ‘Motz’ sellers managed to avoid.

Googlemail stopped offering you the best places for public viewing every time you typed the word ‘football’ in the email to your mom.

Teachers at schools delivered “we need to catch up with the classes, which you missed while waiting for the players by the Brandenburger Tor” speeches.

Solitude on the train between 22.00 and midnight became impossible again.

Scientology boosters brought more stress removers out to streets.

People started trying to decide whether to stay in mourning or put the faces of faked ignorance on.

European Football Championship is over.